[If Mettaton felt light and warm, the Ascian felt heavy and warm. Strong emotion dragged him down as it ever did, but at least this time there was the warmth of companionship to accompany his sadness. Intense, yet calm and soft and slow. Though still gentle, his fingers stroke with a margin more firmness across Mettaton's face, encouraged by the cover of the puca's own hand. It brought another small sense of being held, enclosed.
What an absolute mess. All of the affection is a little overwhelming for Emet-Selch in itself, if not in the desperately aroused sense, but emotionally. His expression shows a trace of that- not quite so negative as unease, but a sense of being unsure. What was he meant to do with all of this...?
For the moment, what he does is return those gestures as best as he could, quietly dwelling on those he could not, as though recording every last detail, no matter how small. At the question, he doesn't answer immediately, instead finding Mettaton's lips for another kiss, light but lingering, and less interrupted by his need for air. It's only with reluctance that he breaks it enough to speak, though without actually moving far from the other man's lips.]
...not too bad. [Overwhelmed, aching, reassured.] And- yourself...?
[He didn't want Mettaton to move. Even if it ultimately wasn't very comfortable, and contained a slow sense of being crushed. Which was... how he felt about all of this, really. Despite the discomfort, he didn't want to pull back from it.]
[He doesn't sound like he needs him to get off. In fact, his reply makes him smile some. He'd asked the same when he first got here, and Emet-Selch radiated such an intensely exhausted and negative aura, claiming he was just tired, alive, the usual. He wonders what had happened, to land him in such a state? He managed to feel even worse off than that. For him to say "not too bad" now is a marked improvement. At least for now. If he's given him something of a reprieve, Mettaton's pleased.
The Puca returns his kiss with a hum of satisfaction. He won't comment on it. He runs his fingers across Emet-Selch's as he removes his hand to brush it through his Bonded's bangs, letting his hand remain there this time.]
I'm... [A word can't summarize it. Captivated, satisfied, and similarly overwhelmed. He sighs.] Wonderful. From repairs to ecstasy... My. You really know how to treat me.
[It's better than he imagined, even given his anatomy, and Mettaton will convey as much with his naturally flirtatious manner. Emet-Selch is to blame for his appetite, he decides. Would anybody else have compared to this, with its depth and its intensity? He doubts it. Mettaton doesn't think he could find that anywhere.
Playfully, he eases into Emet-Selch again, even moving to press his face against one of his favorite spots on Emet-Selch's neck — that spot just below his ear, nestled against his shoulder.]
And you haven't been thoroughly crushed by my hot and heavy metal figure yet...? I'm impressed.
[Emet-Selch would have to agree that Mettaton's presence had brought with it a form of respite, against all odds and good sense. The Ascian was still tired, but differently so (or at least, in a more pleasant way in addition to his usual way). Though alarming in its intensity, everything had served as a disruption, a scattering of thoughts, and considering the usual nature of his thoughts, that probably counted as an undisputed good.]
I could make a similar claim... as I believe I'll carry the marks of your ardor for some time. [Not that the Ascian could see his own neck, but the treatment of it had felt nicely extensive.] Well... I suppose I'll certainly need to keep you alive now.
[Not that he wouldn't have before, but he felt a particular investment in it by this point. His first project would have to be creating some Amaurotine-worthy glass to replace that slowly-shattering casing. Considering his specialties and foreknowledge, Emet-Selch didn't think it would take terribly long, but he did want to have the chance to test his creation properly before any installation. Then he could delve into the intricacies of finding a means to permit a machine body a physical climax. Survival over pleasure.
One of the more absurd projects he'd ever devoted his attention to, but it would keep him occupied.
Though it was reassuring to hear that Mettaton had enjoyed himself already nonetheless. Not that Emet-Selch hadn't thought as much, but... he hoped he'd been able to feel some version of satisfaction in all of this. And was becoming a trace concerned for what would happen if he did somehow attain for him more functional anatomy. If they were this taken by one another now....]
And I'm only partially crushed, I assure you.
[He even manages a bit of lightness, finally, and when Mettaton's face moves to his neck, the Ascian wraps both of his arms back around him, loosely, but certainly not trying to push him off anywhere. Tilting his head a little against his, he encourages the puca to remain close.]
[Well, that settles that, doesn't it? He's not moving off of him. He's trapped, under non-restrictive arms. How cute of him, to lean against his head like this... It doesn't escape Mettaton's notice, and he smiles against his skin, nuzzling closer.]
So by your actions, you must wish for me to remain... until we find you breathless in a completely different manner from earlier. Who am I to judge?
[This is comfortable, besides. Of course the machine would find a soft body comfortable, and of course he'd find one so when he admires their form. His ears fold back, close to his head in a demonstration of comfortable relaxation. Though he has his face against his neck, his arm still frames Emet-Selch's face so that his fingers can pet through his hair, which he does so idly, slowly, not with any particular intention.
Though he doesn't remark upon it, he's pleased to know how easily Emet-Selch takes the news of his lovebitten appearance. Somehow, it hardly surprises Mettaton. He clearly cares something of appearance, but perhaps not this... Or maybe he's just that confident. Either or is good. He knows that if it were him, he'd be proud.
He kisses his neck, far more chaste than anything else he's done this entire night. More chaste than what he's about to blurt out, anyway.]
Oh, yes. I've discovered a mood I have, where I'm not speaking, yet conscious.
I'd say 'tis fine to remain until I become mostly crushed.
[A good thing Garleans were relatively sturdy, the Ascian thought, for all that his body was a relatively average specimen of the type. At least it gave him the chance of withstanding Mettaton for a time (which is the best anyone can ever hope for, really).
But being petted was good, restful, a little soothing. It was still more kindness than Emet-Selch knew what to do with, but he'd just have to accept this fate that he'd been dealt. He makes a soft, contented-sounding hum in the back of his throat, barely audible, nestling his head that tiny bit more against Mettaton.
Confidence was the primary reason the Ascian was undaunted at being so demonstrably claimed, perhaps even appreciating it. While he wasn't the type of person to try and show off those marks, neither would he do anything to deliberately hide them. What was there to be shy about? His host was just a host, but even if it had been a truer self, Emet-Selch didn't think he would have minded any more.
The puca's last comment has his hum gain a note of questioning. While he could make a reasonable guess (considering that their recent activities had included a lot of consciousness and not a lot of conversation), he still gives in and asks.]
I'm so glad you asked, Hades-darling. Against my better judgement, finding myself enticed toward taking the sheer length of another man into my throat, effectively silencing myself... or, fellatious.
[... ... He should not deprive the world of his voice, and yet the draw he experiences toward such activities... Mettaton is bad. He's smirking against Emet-Selch's neck, the surface of his body having grown plenty warm over the span of their time together under the covers.
A twirl of his finger to affectionately curl a lock of his hair about his finger, he continues to massage at his scalp, small of an effort as it is. He's stopped his regular amount of movements, managing to have even a tiredness about him, against all odds. The power of relying on sleep to recharge, and the energy expended over the past hour, make for actual, real sleepiness.
But being atop Emet-Selch lures him into a feeling of security — even Mettaton has found himself terrified in the middle of the nights, much like how Emet-Selch responded to him so reflexively when he showed. Same reasons, too — but it's not so bad, now that he has a Bond to subdue his mood into normal for himself. He trusts him, and yet he would protect him in turn. A possessive nuzzle, another kiss against his neck.]
[The Ascian's first thought is mostly 'does that actually qualify as a mood?' It was more of an... action. Or consequence. He was pretty sure that didn't count.
(His second thought was relief that if Mettaton was going to continue to use that 'darling' suffix with him, that it did sound better attached to his actual name compared to all previous attempts with his title.)
But Emet-Selch just sighs, throwing the ceiling of his room a rather flat look before closing his eyes again. Even so, he can't manage more than the most mild of exasperations, not in his current state, and especially not with that rather restful treatment of his hair and scalp. It was quite easy to be lulled by it, by those small kisses, feeling somewhat taken care of.]
...'tis better than many of your other moods.
[Especially the chatty and teasing ones (which seemed to be the majority). And much better than the other types of silence.]
Well... I won't complain should you find yourself inclined towards self-silencing once again.
[Not right now, though, considering the Ascian's own deepening sense of exhaustion. With the dissatisfaction of the earlier part of the day, the intensity of the last of it, the weight of a lifetime underneath it- he was tired. Neverminding the 'carrying four Bonds' thing.
Still... it wasn't a wholly terrible exhaustion as it normally was, as it would've been if he'd been able to go right to sleep as he'd intended on arriving in his room. The menacing puca had improved things somehow, and that was perhaps the most surprising part of all.
It wouldn't last, and he was still miserable, but that echo of a feeling of not being entirely alone in the world was more than he'd had before.]
[Mettaton only laughs at his remark, nuzzling him further.]
How bold... Can I truly blame you for fancying my company during such... sensual circumstances? No wonder you've found a preference.
[Oh, he knows that's not at all what Emet-Selch's getting at, but he doesn't really believe that he prefers him quiet at all. He likes talking to him, even when it agitates him, Mettaton thinks.
It takes him significantly longer to wind down, still having been in a state where he could've been riled back up, but the longer time goes on the more he relaxes, sleepy and significantly warm. He's decided he'll remain exactly where he is, whether Emet-Selch likes it or not. (Fortunately, part-way through the night he'll end up shifting half of his weight off of the Ascian, sparing him from being sore.)
The matter of his anatomy strikes him again; it's something he doesn't want to walk Aefenglom's streets like, just in case, even if he has to muster something temporary. His voice betrays his mood, slow and intimate.]
The Ascian doesn't quite sigh again at that answer, though he does shake his head, just slightly. The puca had a real talent for taking any comment and making it into whatever he wanted.
And while he wouldn't at all share the same conviction of preferring Mettaton talkative over quiet, conversation with him was always interesting. Even when it annoyed. Even when they disagreed, which they did over... a lot of things, especially important things. And yet here they both were.
But what Emet-Selch could appreciate is that they both seemed to have just assumed that of course Mettaton would be staying the night. No discussion necessary (though the Ascian would be reluctantly relieved to find it somewhat easier to breathe halfway through the night). Reaching up, he quietly strokes at Mettaton's hair for a few seconds, before returning his arm to its place at his back.]
...I will.
[He hadn't forgotten, despite... distractions. Considerable distractions. But the Ascian's certain he could fashion something to an acceptable standard without trouble. To a perfectionist standard, he was less sure of, but it would be nonetheless good.]
[He hasn't even fulfilled the task to thank him, but Mettaton won't leave until he does. He doesn't take no for an answer, for most anything he really wants.
As another expression of 100% affection, he kisses him softly against his neck, eye closed and fingers lazy. Mettaton's never one to hold back on doling out affection and for Emet-Selch it follows that it should be no different. And it isn't, but there's something to it, knowing that he couldn't possibly be this candid with anybody else in Aefenglom, lying like this. He's his usual self, but he's also able to indulge in all facets of his being, not just the showy ones. Maybe that means something.
It doesn't mean anything bad, he decides. He trusts him, and would trust him to be true in all matters, especially the aspects Mettaton fundamentally disagrees with him on. It's a nice feeling. He could find himself here more often.]
[What was all this... affection? It was soothing, that's what it was, Emet-Selch had no choice but to accept that much.
In general terms, Emet-Selch could rest for a long time without actually managing to fall asleep. Being perpetually tired didn't mean perpetually sleepy, and though there was a lot of actual sleep as well, there was an equal amount of hazy, unwanted consciousness. Post-torture, this had only gotten worse, finding it that much harder to relax, as though capture would be waiting if he let his guard down. At least, when he was alone; having someone else present helped.
Not that anyone's presence would do, either, but it felt only expected at this point that Mettaton should be someone that he could find rest with.
Surrounded by warmth, feeling only moderately crushed, lacking both the desire and the ability to move- it doesn't take long at all for the Ascian to drift off into unconsciousness.]
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What an absolute mess. All of the affection is a little overwhelming for Emet-Selch in itself, if not in the desperately aroused sense, but emotionally. His expression shows a trace of that- not quite so negative as unease, but a sense of being unsure. What was he meant to do with all of this...?
For the moment, what he does is return those gestures as best as he could, quietly dwelling on those he could not, as though recording every last detail, no matter how small. At the question, he doesn't answer immediately, instead finding Mettaton's lips for another kiss, light but lingering, and less interrupted by his need for air. It's only with reluctance that he breaks it enough to speak, though without actually moving far from the other man's lips.]
...not too bad. [Overwhelmed, aching, reassured.] And- yourself...?
[He didn't want Mettaton to move. Even if it ultimately wasn't very comfortable, and contained a slow sense of being crushed. Which was... how he felt about all of this, really. Despite the discomfort, he didn't want to pull back from it.]
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The Puca returns his kiss with a hum of satisfaction. He won't comment on it. He runs his fingers across Emet-Selch's as he removes his hand to brush it through his Bonded's bangs, letting his hand remain there this time.]
I'm... [A word can't summarize it. Captivated, satisfied, and similarly overwhelmed. He sighs.] Wonderful. From repairs to ecstasy... My. You really know how to treat me.
[It's better than he imagined, even given his anatomy, and Mettaton will convey as much with his naturally flirtatious manner. Emet-Selch is to blame for his appetite, he decides. Would anybody else have compared to this, with its depth and its intensity? He doubts it. Mettaton doesn't think he could find that anywhere.
Playfully, he eases into Emet-Selch again, even moving to press his face against one of his favorite spots on Emet-Selch's neck — that spot just below his ear, nestled against his shoulder.]
And you haven't been thoroughly crushed by my hot and heavy metal figure yet...? I'm impressed.
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I could make a similar claim... as I believe I'll carry the marks of your ardor for some time. [Not that the Ascian could see his own neck, but the treatment of it had felt nicely extensive.] Well... I suppose I'll certainly need to keep you alive now.
[Not that he wouldn't have before, but he felt a particular investment in it by this point. His first project would have to be creating some Amaurotine-worthy glass to replace that slowly-shattering casing. Considering his specialties and foreknowledge, Emet-Selch didn't think it would take terribly long, but he did want to have the chance to test his creation properly before any installation. Then he could delve into the intricacies of finding a means to permit a machine body a physical climax. Survival over pleasure.
One of the more absurd projects he'd ever devoted his attention to, but it would keep him occupied.
Though it was reassuring to hear that Mettaton had enjoyed himself already nonetheless. Not that Emet-Selch hadn't thought as much, but... he hoped he'd been able to feel some version of satisfaction in all of this. And was becoming a trace concerned for what would happen if he did somehow attain for him more functional anatomy. If they were this taken by one another now....]
And I'm only partially crushed, I assure you.
[He even manages a bit of lightness, finally, and when Mettaton's face moves to his neck, the Ascian wraps both of his arms back around him, loosely, but certainly not trying to push him off anywhere. Tilting his head a little against his, he encourages the puca to remain close.]
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So by your actions, you must wish for me to remain... until we find you breathless in a completely different manner from earlier. Who am I to judge?
[This is comfortable, besides. Of course the machine would find a soft body comfortable, and of course he'd find one so when he admires their form. His ears fold back, close to his head in a demonstration of comfortable relaxation. Though he has his face against his neck, his arm still frames Emet-Selch's face so that his fingers can pet through his hair, which he does so idly, slowly, not with any particular intention.
Though he doesn't remark upon it, he's pleased to know how easily Emet-Selch takes the news of his lovebitten appearance. Somehow, it hardly surprises Mettaton. He clearly cares something of appearance, but perhaps not this... Or maybe he's just that confident. Either or is good. He knows that if it were him, he'd be proud.
He kisses his neck, far more chaste than anything else he's done this entire night. More chaste than what he's about to blurt out, anyway.]
Oh, yes. I've discovered a mood I have, where I'm not speaking, yet conscious.
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[A good thing Garleans were relatively sturdy, the Ascian thought, for all that his body was a relatively average specimen of the type. At least it gave him the chance of withstanding Mettaton for a time (which is the best anyone can ever hope for, really).
But being petted was good, restful, a little soothing. It was still more kindness than Emet-Selch knew what to do with, but he'd just have to accept this fate that he'd been dealt. He makes a soft, contented-sounding hum in the back of his throat, barely audible, nestling his head that tiny bit more against Mettaton.
Confidence was the primary reason the Ascian was undaunted at being so demonstrably claimed, perhaps even appreciating it. While he wasn't the type of person to try and show off those marks, neither would he do anything to deliberately hide them. What was there to be shy about? His host was just a host, but even if it had been a truer self, Emet-Selch didn't think he would have minded any more.
The puca's last comment has his hum gain a note of questioning. While he could make a reasonable guess (considering that their recent activities had included a lot of consciousness and not a lot of conversation), he still gives in and asks.]
And what mood would that be...?
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[... ... He should not deprive the world of his voice, and yet the draw he experiences toward such activities... Mettaton is bad. He's smirking against Emet-Selch's neck, the surface of his body having grown plenty warm over the span of their time together under the covers.
A twirl of his finger to affectionately curl a lock of his hair about his finger, he continues to massage at his scalp, small of an effort as it is. He's stopped his regular amount of movements, managing to have even a tiredness about him, against all odds. The power of relying on sleep to recharge, and the energy expended over the past hour, make for actual, real sleepiness.
But being atop Emet-Selch lures him into a feeling of security — even Mettaton has found himself terrified in the middle of the nights, much like how Emet-Selch responded to him so reflexively when he showed. Same reasons, too — but it's not so bad, now that he has a Bond to subdue his mood into normal for himself. He trusts him, and yet he would protect him in turn. A possessive nuzzle, another kiss against his neck.]
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(His second thought was relief that if Mettaton was going to continue to use that 'darling' suffix with him, that it did sound better attached to his actual name compared to all previous attempts with his title.)
But Emet-Selch just sighs, throwing the ceiling of his room a rather flat look before closing his eyes again. Even so, he can't manage more than the most mild of exasperations, not in his current state, and especially not with that rather restful treatment of his hair and scalp. It was quite easy to be lulled by it, by those small kisses, feeling somewhat taken care of.]
...'tis better than many of your other moods.
[Especially the chatty and teasing ones (which seemed to be the majority). And much better than the other types of silence.]
Well... I won't complain should you find yourself inclined towards self-silencing once again.
[Not right now, though, considering the Ascian's own deepening sense of exhaustion. With the dissatisfaction of the earlier part of the day, the intensity of the last of it, the weight of a lifetime underneath it- he was tired. Neverminding the 'carrying four Bonds' thing.
Still... it wasn't a wholly terrible exhaustion as it normally was, as it would've been if he'd been able to go right to sleep as he'd intended on arriving in his room. The menacing puca had improved things somehow, and that was perhaps the most surprising part of all.
It wouldn't last, and he was still miserable, but that echo of a feeling of not being entirely alone in the world was more than he'd had before.]
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How bold... Can I truly blame you for fancying my company during such... sensual circumstances? No wonder you've found a preference.
[Oh, he knows that's not at all what Emet-Selch's getting at, but he doesn't really believe that he prefers him quiet at all. He likes talking to him, even when it agitates him, Mettaton thinks.
It takes him significantly longer to wind down, still having been in a state where he could've been riled back up, but the longer time goes on the more he relaxes, sleepy and significantly warm. He's decided he'll remain exactly where he is, whether Emet-Selch likes it or not. (Fortunately, part-way through the night he'll end up shifting half of his weight off of the Ascian, sparing him from being sore.)
The matter of his anatomy strikes him again; it's something he doesn't want to walk Aefenglom's streets like, just in case, even if he has to muster something temporary. His voice betrays his mood, slow and intimate.]
...Help me in the morning?
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The Ascian doesn't quite sigh again at that answer, though he does shake his head, just slightly. The puca had a real talent for taking any comment and making it into whatever he wanted.
And while he wouldn't at all share the same conviction of preferring Mettaton talkative over quiet, conversation with him was always interesting. Even when it annoyed. Even when they disagreed, which they did over... a lot of things, especially important things. And yet here they both were.
But what Emet-Selch could appreciate is that they both seemed to have just assumed that of course Mettaton would be staying the night. No discussion necessary (though the Ascian would be reluctantly relieved to find it somewhat easier to breathe halfway through the night). Reaching up, he quietly strokes at Mettaton's hair for a few seconds, before returning his arm to its place at his back.]
...I will.
[He hadn't forgotten, despite... distractions. Considerable distractions. But the Ascian's certain he could fashion something to an acceptable standard without trouble. To a perfectionist standard, he was less sure of, but it would be nonetheless good.]
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[He hasn't even fulfilled the task to thank him, but Mettaton won't leave until he does. He doesn't take no for an answer, for most anything he really wants.
As another expression of 100% affection, he kisses him softly against his neck, eye closed and fingers lazy. Mettaton's never one to hold back on doling out affection and for Emet-Selch it follows that it should be no different. And it isn't, but there's something to it, knowing that he couldn't possibly be this candid with anybody else in Aefenglom, lying like this. He's his usual self, but he's also able to indulge in all facets of his being, not just the showy ones. Maybe that means something.
It doesn't mean anything bad, he decides. He trusts him, and would trust him to be true in all matters, especially the aspects Mettaton fundamentally disagrees with him on. It's a nice feeling. He could find himself here more often.]
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In general terms, Emet-Selch could rest for a long time without actually managing to fall asleep. Being perpetually tired didn't mean perpetually sleepy, and though there was a lot of actual sleep as well, there was an equal amount of hazy, unwanted consciousness. Post-torture, this had only gotten worse, finding it that much harder to relax, as though capture would be waiting if he let his guard down. At least, when he was alone; having someone else present helped.
Not that anyone's presence would do, either, but it felt only expected at this point that Mettaton should be someone that he could find rest with.
Surrounded by warmth, feeling only moderately crushed, lacking both the desire and the ability to move- it doesn't take long at all for the Ascian to drift off into unconsciousness.]